Senate House, Bloomsbury

Are we searching for more time or a different time?

These bikes are chained, the trees bare.

Cold, weathered brick, cold thick air.

Rays of rare brilliance and a wind that whips life into the fallen leaves.

We leap at the sight.

Of terracotta brick, of olive bark, a lingering patch of blue sky.

There is hope within this hue. There are technicolour promises of potential.

Enough of the grey; we are sick of the static.